


A Night At The Theatre

by KoreArabin



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Dominance, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, S&M, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-11-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KoreArabin/pseuds/KoreArabin





	1. Club to Box

The late supper at Moriarty's club is as excellent as ever, and Sebastian relaxes into the embrace of the old, intensely comfortable, leather armchair before the fire, swirling the remains of his brandy indolently as he awaits the Professor's return from whatever club business it is with which he has been engaged. 

Here in the warmth and the dimness of the luxurious surroundings of the club, the walls covered in deep, plum-coloured damask, punctuated by old, dark oil renderings of former club patrons, basking before a roaring fire, Sebastian is perhaps as relaxed and content as he can ever be, his restlessness and perpetual alertness quiescent at least temporarily as he luxuriates in calm repose. 

"Ah, Moran. A splendid supper, was it not? Will you join me in another snifter whilst we relax before this most welcome blaze?" The Professor smiles down at his chief of staff, the firelight catching the auburn of his hair and beard, and sparking his eyes with mischief.

"Yes, Professor. I should like nothin' better. These winter nights are enough to chill us to the damned marrow." Moriarty gestures almost imperceptibly to the virtually invisible attendant, who returns moments later with two fresh glasses of brandy.

The Professor and Moran sit silently for some minutes, both content to savour their brandy and relax in the quiet warmth of the club room. It is the Professor who speaks first. "I thought that we might go on to another club for the evening. It is a rather unusual, _exclusive_ establishment, but one that I feel quite certain you shall enjoy, Sebastian."

Moran drains his glass and places it on a side table. "Professor, the night is still young, and whilst I 'ave 'ad the pleasure of attending some rather choice, if not partic'ly _exclusive_ , well, p'rhaps not _establishments_ , but _dives_ , you might say, I'm 'appy to go where you like."

Moriarty smiles. "Ah, Sebastian, the establishment of which I speak is most certainly _not_ a _dive_. I think you will be most pleasantly surprised by how very far from such a low place of that description it proves to be. Now, let us call for a cab."

Both men wrap up warmly in their greatcoats, mufflers and gloves, Moran donning his usual fedora and the Professor a beaver silk top hat, and cross the short distance from the club entrance to the waiting hansom quickly. Moran does not catch the Professor's directions to the cabbie, but they set off smartly through the cold night, the lights of the city bright in the crisp air, bypassing the heart of the West End. Both men are thankful for the thick travelling rugs and the leather folding curtains of the hansom. The cab carries on north-west, as far as Sebastian can tell, the asphalt and wood setts of Tottenham Court Road soon giving way to the noisier stone cobbled residential roads to the south of Regents Park.

The cab at last draws to a halt before a late Georgian building, set back slightly from the carriageway. "Come, Sebastian, we are here." The Professor speaks briefly to the cabbie, who nods before setting off into the cold night.

The front door is an old, six-panelled affair, with a solid black painted cast iron door knob at waist height, and a glass semi-circular fan light above, through which the muted glow of gas lighting can be made out. The Professor pulls on a bell pull handle to the right of the door, and almost immediately it is opened, by a tall, well-dressed and rather flamboyantly moustachioed man who greets them warmly.

"Ah, Sir, it is so very good to see you again. Do come in, gentlemen, out of the cold night air. Your usual box, Sir? Very good. Would you care for refreshments?"

Moriarty smiles. "Indeed. I think a couple of large brandies and cigars, to warm the chill from the marrow (as you might say, Sebastian), and then champagne."

They follow the man along a wood-panelled hallway, the gas lighting, whilst illuminating the splendid plasterwork of the ceiling, throwing a more muted light over the wood panelling. At the end of the hallway, Sebastian is somewhat dumbfounded to find that further passageways curve away to both left and right, with doors set at intervals along the concave walls. They are led to the left and through a door which opens into what appears to be, to all intents and purposes, a theatre box.

As they are ushered into the room, another man arrives, carrying a tray on which are set two large glasses of brandy, a box of fine cigars and an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne. With a simple, "I wish you a most enjoyable evening, gentlemen," their guide and the waiter leave, and Sebastian is at liberty to examine the room in detail. 

It is richly decorated in a muted damson flock wallpaper, with velvet hangings of a similar hue which can be drawn across the door and the front of the room. The front is the most curious aspect; a large sofa, almost the size of a bed, faces a low wall beyond which Sebastian can make out little. Even though the lighting in the room is subdued, the space beyond is dark, although faint lines of light suggest that similar rooms - similar _boxes_ \- are arranged in something of a semi-circle to either side of them. In short, it appears that they are in a sumptuously appointed private box in an extremely small, extremely private, theatre.

"Where are we, Professor? What is this place?"

"I told you, Sebastian, back at the club. This is an unusual, and most _exclusive_ , establishment. It is, as you have no doubt surmised, a theatre of sorts, but one to which only a most select and discrete few are admitted. Draw the curtains across the door, and join me here on this most exquisitely comfortable seat, and we shall enjoy our brandy."

For a few moments the two men sit side by side in silence, savouring their drinks, and leaning back into the quite astonishing comfortable sofa. The Professor sets his glass back on the tray, and leans across, in to Sebastian, curling his hand in the short hair at the nape of his neck and running his tongue lightly across the other man's lips. Sebastian presses back against the Professor, parting his lips to allow him to explore his mouth with his tongue, the heady flavour of the brandy hot on his breath as he tastes the other man.

Sebastian can feel himself hardening in his trousers, aroused by the strange, intimate atmosphere of the private box and the feel of the Professor's body hot against his own.

Then, suddenly, before them in the "theatre", there is light, and a ripple of expectation as a tall, graceful young man in evening dress walks forward to address the onlookers.

"Gentlemen, this evening we have for you a most stimulating tale, that of the Greek god, Dionysus."


	2. Box to Stage

"Gentlemen, this evening we have for you a most stimulating tale, that of the Greek god, Dionysus." 

The "stage" illumination increases, to reveal scenery of a sort - a low, wide chaise longue made to look like a rustic bench, in the shade of a rather realistically rendered palm tree.

"Let me first introduce the god himself - Dionysus - the master of the grape harvest, of winemaking and wine, and of ritual madness and ecstasy." 

At these words, an exquisitely handsome man walks forward into the light and makes a deep, sweeping bow towards the boxes. He is dressed almost in the classical Grecian style, but his tunic is rather too short and rather too gossamer thin to be authentic. 

He is tall and well-muscled, with pale blonde hair, and his skin has been oiled in a way that makes it gleam almost golden in the muted light. His eyes are outlined and smudged dark with some cosmetic which makes him appear quite sinfully decadent, and his lips (and nipples, as far as Sebastian can make out) are rouged a deep crimson.

Sebastian gasps, and sits forward in his seat. A look of almost childlike delight flits across the Professor's face at the sight of his chief of staff, his _lover_ , so rapt in attention. 

The first man retreats from the spotlight, and Dionysus speaks. "As well as the god of so many good things, I am also a young man of exceptional beauty. My first tale is of a time when I amused myself by disguising as a mortal, sitting beside the seashore. Some sailors caught sight of me and, believing, from my bearing and my beauty, that I must be a prince, they attempted to kidnap me, to sail me far away to sell for ransom or into slavery."

At this, two more men step forward, one stocky, dark and muscular, but handsome, with a short, trimmed beard and moustache, and the other rather taller, light brown haired and clean shaven. Both are also dressed in thin, short tunics of a deep sea blue, and both carry pale yellow ropes which appear to be silken rather than of some coarse material, and which remind Sebastian of bell pulls or curtain ties.

Dionysus speaks again. "The myth says that the sailors tried to bind me with ropes, but no rope of any kind could hold me, and that I turned into a fierce lion and unleashed a bear onboard, killing all those it came into contact with. Those who jumped off the ship I mercifully turned into dolphins. The truth, however, is far more shameful. I was made captive and debauched by my captors."

At this, the two sailors step forward and take hold of Dionysus, manhandling him so that he is laid back across the rustic bench, his wrists bound with the rope and secured to the palm tree behind the bench. The brown haired sailor pushes Dionysus' legs apart, and slides his thin tunic up above his waist, revealing a long, thick semi-erect cock in a nest of blonde curls. He leans down over Dionysus and takes the tip of his manhood into his mouth, Dionysus moaning soft, "No!"s and twisting slightly on the bench as he is skillfully worked to full erection.

Sebastian is on the edge of his seat, literally, absolutely engrossed in the scene unfolding before them. Whilst he has been to many bawdy houses of low repute, and enjoyed the rather crude, if effective, entertainment offered there, he has never before had a tableau so erotic, so unexpected, so involving _men_ rather than women, laid out in front of him. It is only when he feels the Professor's hand caressing his own hard length through the tweed of his trousers, and another sliding beneath him to stroke the crease between his buttocks, that he realises he has hardly been breathing, so totally wound up as he is in the narrative.

The other sailor has removed his tunic, and is pressing the tip of his own erect prick to Dionysus' mouth, who parts his lips and accepts it with a gasp, eyes flickering shut as he sucks it deeper into his throat. From then, time begins to stand still for Sebastian, his whole attention fixed on the three men pleasuring one another before him, almost oblivious to the quiet moans and grunts of enjoyment emanating from the other boxes.

The sailor fellating Dionysus changes his position, sitting on the bench with Dionysus draped backwards across him, legs spread wide as he is impaled upon the sailor's thick penis. The other sailor continues to fuck Dionysus' mouth, whilst his shipmate plunders Dionysus' anus and pumps his swollen prick with a free hand.

There is a quiet, collective gasp from the onlookers as the first sailor climaxes inside the captive god, followed almost immediately afterwards by Dionysus himself, who stripes his belly with his issue as he orgasms with a shout. Finally the other sailor climaxes, pulling his cock from Dionysus' mouth and spilling his seed in three long spurts across his face. 

After a few moments in which the performers recover themselves, an extremely appreciative round of applause rings out loudly from the spectators' boxes, and the three men make deep, flamboyant bows before taking their clothing and leaving the stage.

Sebastian sits back on the sumptuous sofa, so aroused he feels himself to be on the very edge of climax. "Professor, I don't know what to say. I - I - 'ave never seen such a thing. Those men - that _god_..."

"Hush, my dearest Sebastian. I rather anticipated that this would be your reaction. This is a place where so many idle imaginings, so many dreams, so many pleasurable _fantasies_ can become a reality. I see that your manhood is straining in your trousers, my dove. I shall give you a choice: you may touch yourself and bring yourself to issue, and we shall then enjoy this fine champagne. Or you shall partipate in the next scene wrought for our delectation by these exquisite "actors". No, you shall not _participate_ , you shall be the very _centrepiece_ of the scene."

Moran's eyes are wide with surprise, but the Professor senses also a frisson of excitement at his lover's imagining himself being - manhandled? Bound? Fellated? _Fucked_ by the three men they have just watching enjoying one another?

"I am sure that I do not need to tell you which of these alternatives I should prefer, Sebastian, but - the choice is yours."

"Professor, that's not fair! How's that a choice for me? And what if I should be seen by some bloke who knows me?"

"You hardly need concern yourself about that, Sebastian. This place is the very epitome of discretion. Even if anyone here recognises you, which I very much doubt, to reveal such a thing would be to implicate oneself as recogniser, hmmm?"

The Professor leans in very close to his marksman, running his lips down over the side of his neck, to the pulse point at his throat, sensing the blood hammering as Sebastian struggles, torn between arousal and excitement on the one hand, and fear of the unknown on the other.

"My love, it would please me very much - very much indeed - if you were to do this for me." So saying, the Professor claims Moran's lips in a punishing, biting kiss of dominance. Sebastian knows then that he is lost, every sense, every nerve in his body on fire with the need to obey this man, to serve him, to please him, to _submit_ to his will.

"Professor, _James_ , I can't refuse you, Sir. Let them do what they want to me, only - let me know you're there, Sir. I cannot do this unless you're there with me, Sir."

"Very well, chick, I shall be with you. But you will soon be too lost in pleasure, my dove, to know or care about that."

With that, Moriarty stands and moves to the back of the box, holding aside the curtain by the door to reveal a bell pull. Locking his eyes with those of his lover and, never once letting his gaze drop, he rings the bell.


	3. Stage to Cage

There is a sharp knock at the door of the box. "Enter." 

Two men, both looking as if they may have been professional pugilists in a former occupation, step into the room. The Professor strokes the back of his hand down Sebastian's cheek. "Are you sure, my dove? Yes?"

"Yes, Sir."

With that, the two men step aside, and Moran is led from the room, bounded on both sides by them. Moriarty, left alone, lights a cigar and pours himself a glass of iced champagne. As Moran said earlier, the night is young, and he anticipates it being very long and extremely pleasurable.

-O-

There is a faint stirring from the boxes as the theatre lights brighten. The same tall man in evening dress steps forward again. "And now, my friends, we have entertainment of a rather different kind. One of our patrons has most generously lent us his _tiger_ for our next piece. An untamed _beast_ of a man, we have prepared him to be played with; to be teased; to be _enjoyed_ by you, as we understand our audience relishes such wildness being brought to heel against its will in such matters on this stage. Gentlemen - the _tiger_!"

Now it is the Professor's turn to gasp and sit forwards on the edge of the sofa. Sebastian is led into the small theatre space, totally naked, his skin burnished in the same way as that of Dionysus - golden - but, in Sebastian's case, creamier, allowing his freckles to show through the glow of his skin, and almost imperceptibly decorated with stripes of orange and black.

There is a thick, studded, leather collar around his neck, gleaming dully with the patina of age and use, to which is attached a long metal chain. His arms are bound behind him, leather straps around them from wrist to shoulder, and he is blindfolded and gagged, more leather straps across his eyes and his mouth.

But the most arousing aspect of his lover's subjugation, to the Professor, is the tight leather strap wound around Sebastian's cock and balls, squeezing them, emphasising and trapping his erection, a stout leather leash attached to the strap.

The man leading Sebastian - one of the sailors from the previous scene, dressed now in a gossamer thin, short, white tunic and a fitted mask fashioned from golden material, covering his eyes and nose in a similar way to a Venetian carnival mask, tugs on the leash, eliciting a hiss of anger or pain, audible even through the gag, from his captive. Sebastian is led forward to stand between two tall, off-white, Doric columns, which the Professor is quite certain cannot be carved from limestone or marble, but which are beautifully rendered nonetheless, each a good couple of feet taller than Moran, who stands still and unsuspecting between them. Metal rings are set into the columns at the base and just below the plain capitals.

"Sirs. Here we have a wild beast, captive. A tiger to be tamed. Upon this stage we shall reduce the snarling, feral animal to a clawless, mewling kitten, desperate and begging only to be allowed indulgence in the more carnal aspects of its nature."

At this, the other sailor and the man who played Dionysus step forward, dressed in tunics and masks in the same way as the first man. Sebastian's ankles are kicked apart, and leather straps fastened around them, which are then tied to the metal rings at the base of the columns. His arms are then released and the leather strapping adjusted to that his wrists, too, are similarly secured to the rings at the top of the columns.

"First, gentlemen, the taming!" "Dionysus" takes the leash attached to the strap trapping Sebastian's cock and balls, and pulls it, hard, back between his legs, securing the end of it to the back of the heavy, studded collar. Sebastian snarls as best he can, through the leather gag, as his erect penis and his swollen testicles are pulled back between his spread thighs, his balls mashed against his perineum and his cock now pointing stiffly towards the floor.

"The leash is tight between the animal's buttocks, held fast across its anus. The trapped beast writhes in its captivity, its most intimate organs bound up and controlled by its trainer. The trainer will now commence the animal's breaking in."


	4. The Taming Commences

"Dionysus" steps forward to stand immediately behind Sebastian, whilst one of the other men kneels between his spread thighs and the third moves to his side. All three men begin to caress Moran, "Dionysus" pulling gently on the leash between his buttocks, rubbing it more intimately against his anus, whilst simultaneously running his fingers lightly up and down the crease of his backside. The man to the side licks at one nipple as he rolls the other between his fingertips, teasing the pink nub until it swells and darkens.

The third flicks the very tip of his tongue over the head of Moran's bound cock, teasing the slit and lapping oh-so-softly at the precome beading there. Sebastian groans and twists in his restraints, his red, swollen, _straining_ prick sensitised beyond belief by the position it has been bound in, trying desperately to garner more friction on the sensitive glans from the man teasing him so maddeningly.

The three men continue their attentions to Sebastian's most sensitive areas, the constant stimulation exactly what he wants, but no where near enough what he _needs_. By the time they cease their ministrations, their captive is a writhing, sweating, moaning mess, muffled pleas and expletives coming thick and fast from behind the gag.

"Dionysus" steps forward and runs his hand softly down the side of Sebastian's face, the bound man groaning and turning into the touch. Abruptly, "Dionysus" pulls his hand away and slaps Sebastian, then backhands him across the other cheek, eliciting a gasp of surprise and anger from his captive.

"You forget, _tiger_ , that you are first to be _tamed_. Trained. Broken in. Your _owner_ has given you over to us for this purpose, and has authorised us to use any means at our disposal to ensure that you are returned to him suitably chastened. A flogging would therefore appear to be in order, before you forget your place and your purpose here, as our entertainment, this evening."

One of the others hands "Dionysus" a heavy flogger, the thick wooden handle set with long braided strips of leather. It is an implement of sensation rather than true punishment, but the purpose of the evening's proceedings is to torment with pleasure rather than pain, and for the onlookers to relish Sebastian's humiliation once eventually he is utterly overcome and unable to prevent himself climaxing violently and loudly before the assembled audience.

"Dionysus" drapes the braids of the flogger over Sebastian's shoulders, allowing them to brush over his swollen nipples and down the curve of his back to the swell of his buttocks. Sebastian cannot quite stifle a shiver of anticipation; blindfolded, he is unable to get a proper sense of the implement, or to gauge the possible pain it may inflict. 

Once, however, "Dionysus" begins to flog him in earnest, he relaxes to some extent. The flogger certainly has a sting and a thudding heaviness as it falls repeatedly on his back, buttocks and thighs, but not the sharp, cutting pain of a whip or cane. That is not to say however that the flogging is gentle; Sebastian is soon writhing and moaning in his restraints as his back and backside are left covered with dull red stripes.

At last the flogging ends, and Sebastian stands panting and limp between the Doric columns. One of the sailors from the previous scene then steps forward. 

"Gentlemen, we heard previously the tale of Dionysus and his debauchment at the hands of the mariners. Another, perhaps better-known, story is that of his descent to Hades to rescue his mother, Semele. Dionysus was guided to the bottomless pool on the coast of the Argolid to make his descent by a young shepherd, named Prosymnus. The youth agreed to reveal the path only if Dionysus would be his lover on his return. After returning from Hades, Dionysus found that Prosymnus had died during his absence. 

Resolved to keep his promise, however, the god fashioned a phallus from an olive branch, lubricated it with oil and sat on it at Prosymnus' tomb."

At these last words, Sebastian suddenly becomes more alert, listening intently.

"Sadly, gentlemen, we are not possessed of a phallus of olive wood, but we do have a flogger handle and a vial of olive oil, and, so we present to you - in Dionysus' stead - the tiger impaled!"


	5. The Rutting Tiger

The man's words leave Sebastian in something of a quandary. On the one hand, he very much wants to please the Professor by following his wishes; to give his lover pleasure and, in a way, to imbue him with pride in Sebastian's agapic, as well as erotic, devotion to him. He wants the Professor's approval; to be stroked and caressed, to be told that he is the Professor's good boy, his chick, the one who will be kept at his side, his trusted one; his most beloved.

But - be be sodomised before a crowd of strangers? Not even simply to be fucked, but to be fucked with an inanimate object - a piece of wood? It is not the humiliation of being used in such a way which frightens Sebastian; if he did not enjoy being used so, being _humiliated_ for another's pleasure, his relationship with the Professor would never have developed to such heights of trust and devotion.

No, it is his need for his Master, his reassuring presence, his familiar _scent_ which Sebastian needs, to calm him, to settle him, to _centre_ him, so that he can be used in a way and submit in a manner which Colonel Sebastian Moran, late of Her Majesty's Army, hitherto accustomed to commanding others, whether that be in or out of bed, would previously have been unable to countenance. 

Sebastian begins to whimper and struggle against his restraints. As if anticipating his reaction, "Dionysus" steps forward, stroking Sebastian's flank, gently, as one might calm a skittish animal. Something - a cloth? A piece of fabric? A _handkerchief_ , is held to Sebastian's face. He recognises the scent immediately; the Professor's cologne and, subtly, underlying that, the Professor's own, unique, masculine scent. Sebastian buries his face in the material, inhaling as deeply as possible, feeling his pulse quicken even as his mind and body relax, enveloped in the heady scent of his lover, his _Master_.

"Dionysus", clearly sensing that Sebastian has overcome his brief episode of nervousness, leans in to whisper into his ear.

"You should see yourself, tiger, bound and naked before the audience here. Do you imagine their eyes on you, on your straining cock? On your reddened backside? On your arsehole, soon to be clenching around the flogger's handle? That they see before them a valuable, highly-sexed animal whose owner wishes to show him off? Your _owner_ , the Professor, watching you, proud that his Sebastian is performing so well. Does it excite you to know that he will see you come, see you spill your seed all over yourself and the floor? Unable to control yourself, stimulated for the pleasure and entertainment of strangers?" 

At this, Sebastian groans, his bound cock twitching, thrusting forwards at the air, desperate for relief. "Ah, no. Not yet, tiger. Not before you have been properly _fucked_." 

There is a hand on his back, pressing him forwards and down. At first, Sebastian cannot quite ascertain what they are asking of him, but as the restraints on his wrists loosen momentarily, before being tightened again, he realises that his captors want him to lean forward from the hips, his legs still restrained and spread wide, but his upper body canted forward whilst his wrists continue to be chained behind him to the pillars.

"Dionysus" begins to speak again, to the assembled onlookers. "The wooden phallus was hard, and thick, and so I slicked it well with olive oil, smearing myself with more of the same, impaling myself on my own fingers as I worked myself open. The fierce, untamed tiger is of course restrained, but we shall work him open to accept his impalement, his _consummation_ of the bargain made with Prosymnus."

Sebastian expects to feel oil-coated fingers probing at the tight, sensitive ring of muscle at his opening. But, instead, there is a warm breath followed by a slick, wet tongue, lapping at his hole. The sensation is as unfamiliar as it is pleasurable, and Sebastian growls low in his throat as he pushes back into the delicious stimulation. 

All that can be heard in the quiet theatre are the wet sounds of licking and sucking, and Sebastian's low rumbles of pleasure as he pushes his arse back against the tongue and lips which are working him open so expertly.

"See, gentlemen, the tiger growling in arousal as it is stimulated in the most intimate way, giving itself over to its most base instincts, rutting itself against the instrument of pleasure. But, gentlemen, we have yet to witness the beast's pained moans and struggles as the thick, long, unyielding handle of the instrument of discipline is worked into its opening.

Sirs - at last - the tiger impaled!"


	6. The Tiger's Release

Sebastian growls again as the lips and tongue laving his arse are abruptly withdrawn, and replaced by the large, blunt end of the flogger handle. He can feel that the implement is slick with oil, and whilst that makes its passage into his clenching arsehole somewhat easier, it does nothing to alleviate the painful burning sensation as he is stretched wide by the thick, hard, wooden handle.

He realises that they are being relatively gentle with him; they presumably do not wish to hand him back to the Professor torn and bleeding. However, he cannot prevent himself twisting forward, trying to escape the constant pressure at his backside, moaning as he does so.

"No, no, tiger. Be still. You _will_ take this. We are not going to stop until you are stuffed full with the phallus, just as Dionysus was at Prosymnus' tomb, your hole stretched and swollen and sore. You cannot escape your bonds. If you try to, we shall simply use additional restraints. You are now a captive beast, and you must accept that we _will_ tame you, no matter how much you struggle nor how much you roar."

The thick wooden handle continues its inexorable slide into Sebastian's anus as he continues to struggle and groan. His captors are as good as their word, and a thick leather double strap is passed around his head, one strand between his lips, forming an impromptu gag, and the other around his neck as a choke. His head is jerked back and up roughly, and the pressure at his throat only released when his struggles subside.

Only when Sebastian is panting and moaning around the leather gag is the handle buried completely inside him. Just as his breathing begins to still, one of his captors begins to work it gently in and out of his anus. The solid phallus by now is pressing constantly against his prostate, the movement providing even more stimulation, and his moans of pain gradually mutate into gasps of pleasure.

His bound cock remains standing stiffly erect before him, and the two "sailors" begin once again to tease him, one licking at his testicles, grazing them lightly with his teeth, the other suckling gently at the tip of his swollen cock. "Dionysus" continues to fuck his arse with the flogger handle, more roughly as Sebastian's moans increase, allowing the gag and choke to drop and hang loosely over his shoulders so that the audience can better hear his gasped sounds of pleasure.

Sebastian begins to writhe again against the restraints, this time in helpless arousal. He feels impossibly overstimulated; from the delicious sucking and licking at his over-sensitive cock, to the lips, tongue and fingers caressing his balls and perineum, to the constant reaming of his arsehole. He can feel his orgasm building as wave after wave of pleasure crests over him yet, with his genitals still bound, he cannot orgasm.

Sebastian moans. "I, I... cant..."

"What, tiger? You shall have to be specific."

"I can't come!" Sebastian all but shouts, in frustration and denial.

"Then tell us what you want, tiger. _Beg_ for it. Your owner is waiting."

He looks up, then. The Professor's box is now illuminated, just enough for Sebastian to make out his lover's face in the lamplight. He locks eyes with the Professor, his attention solely focussed on him, his words just for him. "Please, please, Sir, please allow me... please, Sir, allow me to come. Please, Sir, please."

The Professor nods, once, and then the bindings at his crotch are gone. Sebastian's guttural howl of ecstasy as he is at last allowed release reverberates around the small stage, and then, suddenly, there is nothing for Sebastian other than the profound and rapturous pleasure of an orgasm, more powerful than he can recall having in a long time, tearing through him. 

Eyes closed, head tipped back and the muscles of his neck corded, Sebastian roars as long ribbons of seed spurt from his over-stimulated cock, splashing hot over his belly and thighs and on to the floor of the stage. He writhes and moans as his orgasm seems impossibly to go on and on, shuddering through him as his arse stutters and clenches around the handle penetrating him.

At last, when only the last, delicious, aftershocks are shooting through him, he slumps in his restraints, vaguely aware of a rolling wave of cheering and applause from the onlookers, and then strong arms holding him upright as the straps at his wrists and ankles are released. Sebastian allows himself to be led from the stage, into a softly lit room, where is he cleaned with warm, scented cloths, and something soothing and cool is rubbed into his swollen, sore anus.

He is wrapped in warm furs and, when he next opens his eyes, the Professor is standing over him, and he is laid back against the cushions of the huge sofa in the private box.

"Professor..." His voice sounds cracked, _wrecked_ , even to him in his exhausted state.

"Shh, shh. Hush now, chick. Lie back and rest. You were wonderful, my dove, utterly wonderful. Rest now. We shall talk when you are more yourself again." And as he feels the Professor softly brushing a stray lock of hair back from his face, and the warmth of his lover close by, Sebastian obeys, content and secure in his Master's embrace.


	7. Epilogue

When Sebastian awakes, he is still wrapped in the warm furs, on the sofa, but Moriarty is also lying beneath them beside him. "Sir?"

"Sebastian. My _dove_. You are awake. Will you have something to drink? Or eat?" The Professor's voice is deep, and his breath warm against his ear. 

"Oh. Sir. Wine or brandy? And water. I am so thirsty."

The Professor holds a glass of chilled water to his lips and Sebastian swallows eagerly. "Another?"

"No, Sir. Just - wine. Or brandy. Or something _burnin'_ on the throat."

Smiling, Moriarty offers his marksman a silver cup, which looks rather larger than those usually attached to a gentleman's hip flask. "Brandy, chick. Sip it, though. You have endured a great deal for me this night, my tiger."

Despite his exhaustion, Sebastian cannot and does not want to understand his Master's reference to his _endurance_. Endurance? That is a matter of daily record for a man such as he, accustomed to the discomforts of army life, and the privations and hardships of the desert. 

To crouching for hours, poised as the deadliest of assassins, ready to shoot his target in the coldest blood before leaving the scene as nonchalantly and unobtrusively as if he were out for a stroll to take the air. To kill, and kill again, and again. To be a _murderer_ , with not even the duty of one's country and Queen as excuse.

Sensing Sebastian's hesitation, Moriarty waits until the brandy cup has been drained, before sliding again beneath the furs and hugging him close to him. 

"You do not, I think, quite want to understand, or admit, even to yourself, what you have done for me this night, hmmmm, chick? Ah, my Sebastian, you think sometimes in such unswervingly straight lines. To deviate from that unerring course, to even _acknowledge_ that one's thoughts must sometimes take unusual, meandering, perambulations can be very difficult, I know. But you must allow your intellect and, indeed, your fancy, to take you on flights far up and above all of that, and cast off those leaden, earth-tethered, notions.

For, tonight, you have undergone so much for me, during the "performance". Not only in the physical aspects of your _fucking_ ," (at this Moriarty's voice lowers and he speaks the word huskily against the shell of Sebastian's ear), "but also at being so laid bare, so totally exposed, in such unfamiliar surroundings and circumstances, for me. 

You think that endurance, that _bravery_ , can only be exemplified through physical hardship and pain, or fighting and killing? I think not, my dove. Tonight you showed such strength, such _courage_ , such - but no, I shall not say that word which we do not utter to each other. You were magnificent, my tiger."

"I, I still don't follow, Sir. They tied me, beat me, _pleasured_ me, and made me come. There ain't nothin' _brave_ exactly about any of that, is there, Sir?" 

The Professor smiles. "You do not want to admit that you _do_ follow me, chick, hmmmm? Should I then have let them all have their way with you, Sebastian? Let them all beat you black and blue? Let them all _fuck_ you until your hole was stretched and sore and slippery with their seed? Then leave you bound and dripping, waiting until they wished to use you again? Would suffering _that_ have convinced you of courage and endurance? I think not. And I think that you know that.

No, my _brave_ tiger, you did something so very much more profound for me than taking a savage rape and beating. You opened your very self up for me, something I _know_ is far more difficult for a man like you than enduring physical suffering. You do not want to admit that, because it is too much to acknowledge that internal self, that core, that very essence of who and what Sebastian Moran _is_.

But, I know, my dear, _dear_ , tiger, and I - ah, no, no - again - I shall not say it - I _salute_ you for it."

Moriarty moves close to his marksman, and wraps his arm around him. And Sebastian, his face turned away so that the Professor will not see the smattering of tears glistening on his lashes, lets the word that neither can quite say hang in the air between them, before closing his eyes and sleeping, held in his lover's arms.


End file.
